


Siete

by gonta



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Backstory, Birthday, Flashbacks, No Spoilers, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gonta/pseuds/gonta
Summary: Birthdays, over the years.





	Siete

The first time he picks up a racquet is on his tenth birthday. 

His father squats down next to him as he unwraps the distinctly-shaped present, stopping to glance up at him in confusion once the gift’s identity is revealed. He can't recall what he’d asked for for his birthday, but it probably wasn't this. 

His dad smiles at him and explains that he used to play tennis with  _ his _ dad back when he was his age, and that he wants to do it with him. He puts a hand on his shoulder and he tenses up slightly, recalling his time spent on the bench in school gym class - the teachers had a fair amount of concern about someone with his malformed body type playing, and so he stayed on the sidelines. But he does not protest as his father loads the new racquet, his own old one, a container of tennis balls, and some water bottles into the car and watches as he climbs up on the back seat. 

At first, every ball slams into the chain-link fence behind him on the court or soars over the same structure on his other side. But he gets a handle on the game in nearly no time at all, prompting raised eyebrows and praise from his opponent. 

Sweaty and laughing, the older man ruffles his still-natural hair as they walk back towards the car after hours of playing. He thinks about the feeling of being on the court the whole night long. 

 

* * *

 

His twelfth birthday is one marked by callouses and bruises, though strangely not unpleasant. The members of the tennis club corner him after practice and all start talking at once, mostly chiding him for not telling him that it was his birthday. He simply shrugs, fully aware of what's to come. 

Tennis club has proven to be as much about odd rituals as it is about the sport itself, and he's had to do all manner of bizarre hazing practices in order to prove himself as being part of the team. This doesn't come as much of a surprise. 

Six (admittedly wimpy, coming from middle schoolers) punches on each arm, one for every year. He grits his teeth as he takes each one, his fingers occasionally twitching. In the end, though, the room erupts with scattered cheering, and one of the bigger club members hoists him up. 

In that moment, he thinks about how lucky he is. 

 

* * *

 

His thirteenth is when the cat follows him home. He's been feeding it for a while, having watched it lurk on the outskirts of the tennis court for even longer. It's always regarded him with eyes nearly as wide as his own, simply sitting there as he returns serve after serve. But as he heads home that day, he hears minuscule footsteps behind his own. 

As he turns around, he sees it sitting there - still with that same strange inquisitive expression, head cocked to one side. He chuckles and gives it a scratch behind the ears, watching it purr before going on his way. 

The footfalls continue, though, prompting him to turn around again. It’s still there, dark grey fur smudged with dirt. This time, it doesn't stop behind him as he stops, but moves towards him. He stands there helplessly as it circles his leg, stopping to rub against it with its cheek. It purrs like a vibrating phone. 

He scratches the back of his neck, pondering what to do with this newfound friend - after all, it  _ is _ a stray. Still, his own nature gets the best of him, and he takes the kitten in his arms and carries it all the way home. 

It falls asleep against him as he walks along, its body practically melting into his chest. It's a pleasant feeling. 

 

* * *

 

He winces in mild pain as the needle is shoved through the top of his ear on his fourteenth birthday. Just like the tennis club punches, he anticipated this, but the anticipation does nothing to numb the pain. 

There's a girl he met about a week ago at a tournament, being set to compete against her, and the two had made a bet out of mutual boredom. “If I win,” he stated, gesturing at the small silver hoops that hung from her earlobes, “You have to get me one of those. Deal?” 

She had given him an exasperated look and some kind of snarky comeback, but had agreed. He can't remember now what her proposal for if  _ she _ had won was, but it stopped mattering the moment he walked off the court to the raucous cheers of a captive audience. Game, set, match. 

The girl rolls her eyes at his discomfort, but forks the money over to the vendor at the piercing booth anyway. As he flicks the helix piercing up and down, fiddling with it, she offers him a tiny smile. He knows he's never gonna take this thing off. 

 

* * *

 

By the time of his fifteenth birthday, the girl is gone. So are the promises of mutual commitment and the birthday presents. Unless you can call sitting in a courtroom as mass media hyperanalyzes your every move a present, and he certainly doesn't. He leans back on a chair, blood still caking the skin under his fingernails, and proceeds to it make eye contact with a single person in the room.

The trial - or, the useless attempt at one, despite the fact that even he knows his own guilt - is frequently punctuated by scoldings, chiding him to pay attention and to stop smoking in the goddamn courtroom. He pretends to turn a lazy eye to whoever is yelling now, only to snuff out his cigarettes on the table and proceed to immediately light another one. 

The jury takes ten minutes to decide, and finds him guilty on every single count. He'd like to believe that his loved ones he killed by proxy count as part of that equation. 

The solace that he'll be away from anyone he could possibly hurt is enough for him on this day. 

 

* * *

 

He only remembers his own sixteenth birthday as he drifts off to sleep on the very same day, clutching the feeble excuse for a blanket in his fists. 

It doesn't matter now. 

 

* * *

 

Hoshi’s dorm room gradually comes into focus as there's a pleasant knock against his door. Blinking uselessly, he mumbles something about waiting before getting changed. It's just another day, and he's barely made an effort to socialize with many of his classmates, so why is someone knocking so early? 

After zipping up his jumpsuit and throwing a worn leather jacket over his shoulders, he’s slow to open the door. Maybe whoever came has already left, and he can go about his business like normal. He stands there for a few brief moments before shaking his head in resignation and opening the door a crack, just enough to peer out. 

“Good morning, Hoshi-kun,” nervously mumbles the black-haired boy who stands fiddling with his hands just outside of the room. Unlike normally, though, he looks like he had something to say.

Hoshi opens the door all the way, leaning against its frame and crossing his arms. “Saihara,” he states matter-of-factly. His expression remains unchanged. “You're up early.”

“I suppose so,” the detective replies, fully aware of how early the tennis player is wont to get up. “Uh… listen, Hoshi-kun. Let's go get breakfast together. How does that sound?” 

He raises an eyebrow at this. Something’s clearly up, but he can't tell what. “You know, Saihara, you still shouldn't care about me. That's a lesson that everyone else seems to have learned, but you still doggedly pursue me. Why?” 

It's not a question that Saihara was likely expecting, as his eyes widen slightly. Still, he shakes his head. “Come with me.”

He has no choice to comply as the detective takes his small, calloused hand between his own smooth fingers and leads him out of his room. The two cross campus together, through the overgrown grass and into the kudzu-covered main building that more closely resembles a grassy knoll than a school. 

Saihara’s gait is more focused than usual, he notices. 

The two come to a stop outside of the cafeteria door, and Hoshi finds himself questioning the invitation again. Glancing up at Saihara, the detective gives him a wavering smile. He gestures towards the door, waiting for him to open it. Hoshi sighs, though more out of habit than out of exasperation, and pushes the door. 

The moment he crosses the threshold, he realizes with a start that today is his- 

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HOSHI-KUN!”

Fourteen voices, sans only his own and Saihara’s, ring out. He flinches, but soon realizes that everyone is there - all chattering excitedly and glancing over at him. A feverish blush spreads over his face as he's surrounded: several of his classmates shove wrapped boxes in his face, Kaito rolls up his sleeves to give him birthday punches before Toujou calmly tells him to stop, Gonta wraps him in a bear hug that almost makes him faint. 

Hoshi pulls his hat down over his forehead, causing everyone to fall silent. “I told you,” he mutters, “You shouldn't look out for someone like me. Really.”

“Y-you  _ have _ said that,” Saihara points out, looking for once contented. “But-” 

“When's the last time anyone here actually paid attention to something like that, anyway?” Ouma interjects. “So we’re doin’ it, even if Hoshi-kun acts too cool for it and refuses!” He puts a hand on his shoulder and shakes it firmly. “So, happy… uh…”

The inklings of a smile begin to form on Hoshi’s face. “Seventeenth,” he prompts, the word feeling satisfying on his tongue. 

“Happy seventeenth birthday, then!” everyone murmurs agreement. 

Hoshi thinks about the feeling from that morning all day long. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I was originally gonna write a more ensemble-focused comedy work, but i wrote 3000+ words of it before realizing i didn't like how it was turning out. I could pastebin that for anyone interested.
> 
> Also, this work was originally called cinco because I thought it started at 12 instead of 10. Oops. It's fixed now
> 
> Happy birthday, Hoshi!


End file.
